WHO: Nikos & Kostos WHAT: Two bros admitting they care, five feet apart because they're not fucking babies. WHEN: Sometime earlier in Bloomingtide. WHERE: Antiva. NOTES: Other stuff might get stuck in here too.
[Nikos grunts, first. Fine. But he has to register, for the record--]
If this is you being some noble fucking martyr--
[Don't. Grumbled, it sounds more like a complaint than any concern. And it is a complaint. But he's being dramatic, and Kostos is actually being helpful so, fine, yes--he puts one foot in Kostos' cupped hands, gets his fingertips on the edge of the windowsill--
It takes effort. He's not exactly built, except in the area of his gut. The wall-scrabbling is ungainly but minimal--and he steps at one point on Kostos' head, which he chooses to take as a kind of insult instead of a clumsy mistake--and eventually he gets an arm over the windowsill, and then he can haul himself up, properly, brace feet against the side of the wall and vault over.
Clumsy. But out of Kostos' view, and like the professional he fucking is, he shrinks against the wall and holds very still once he's gotten himself to rights. His hand on his knife, his eyes playing about the room. The unearthly light of his brother's wisps light up the room as they rise over the windowsill. Nikos glares at them. It's an appreciative glare.
No one is in the room. He shoves himself to his feet and moves toward the nearest piece of furniture: a desk.]
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If this is you being some noble fucking martyr--
[Don't. Grumbled, it sounds more like a complaint than any concern. And it is a complaint. But he's being dramatic, and Kostos is actually being helpful so, fine, yes--he puts one foot in Kostos' cupped hands, gets his fingertips on the edge of the windowsill--
It takes effort. He's not exactly built, except in the area of his gut. The wall-scrabbling is ungainly but minimal--and he steps at one point on Kostos' head, which he chooses to take as a kind of insult instead of a clumsy mistake--and eventually he gets an arm over the windowsill, and then he can haul himself up, properly, brace feet against the side of the wall and vault over.
Clumsy. But out of Kostos' view, and like the professional he fucking is, he shrinks against the wall and holds very still once he's gotten himself to rights. His hand on his knife, his eyes playing about the room. The unearthly light of his brother's wisps light up the room as they rise over the windowsill. Nikos glares at them. It's an appreciative glare.
No one is in the room. He shoves himself to his feet and moves toward the nearest piece of furniture: a desk.]